


Silver Lining

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Amputation-verse, M/M, Marriage Contract, angst with eventual happy ending, recovery arc, series of linear one-shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22608013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Never let it be said that Tobirama does not love his brother.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 43
Kudos: 338





	1. Tobirama POV

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reposting of an AU originally hosted in my [horror anthology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898752). It was meant to be a one-shot, but I apparently can't stop adding to it. XD 
> 
> Warnings for mild description of self-mutilation in chapter two, unreliable narrators, and Tobirama's self-sacrificial world-view.

“There’s no honor in this.”

Tobirama flinches, but refuses to look away from the condemnation etched in his brother’s face. Throughout the day Hashirama will don a myriad of false masks—each finely painted to portray a single doll-like emotion—but he knows this one to be true. It’s in the way his brother’s voice falls flat, the fury with which his chakra writhes and lashes at the boundaries of his shadow. There will be no coming back from this, Tobirama knows. His welfare will always fall second to Madara’s desires in Hashirama’s regard.

“I know,” he states simply. No ‘Anija’, no appellation to remind him that they are bound by blood where the Uchiha isn’t.

His seemingly glib reply sets Hashirama to pacing a vicious track behind his desk, pulling at his pauldrons and setting his hair swinging in his wake. Tobirama looks to the line of honed kunai on the desk between them as they glint with fresh oil in the lamplight. His brother always did like to have his weapons sharp yet impotent when not settled in his hand. 

“You nearly killed Madara’s brother today, Tobirama,” Hashirama snaps, sharpening his ire on Tobirama’s name. “You know the dream Madara and I share, how fragile things have been. You may as well have struck me down in his place.” His violent gesticulations cause strangle vine to sprout from the girders overhead.

Tobirama briefly glances up, then settles his attention on Hashirama, eyes narrowed and a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “While the nature of the strike lacked honor, my blade only grazed Izuna. It was nothing worse than a sparring accident. He’ll recover with no further consequence,” he objects. As soon as the words leave his mouth he knows he’s misstepped. It’s not the severity of the wound that has his brother struggling to stay his hand, it’s the fact that Tobirama acted without command. He went on the offensive of his own volition when he should have bowed before Uchiha Izuna and taken the blow.

This is another thing he knows. Amazing how he can have such an intimate understanding of the breadth of this man’s character and still manage to destroy every bond between them without even trying.

“Get out.” The command is a quiet, dangerous thing. “I don’t want your opinions. I want to be able to trust your sword arm to protect our dream. If I can’t rely on you for that, I want you out.”

_Our dream._

His and Madara’s.

Tobirama nods once and turns without further argument. There’s no point to it. He sweeps out of the room with an odd tremor in his legs—the aftereffects of the adrenaline he stopped feeling on the battlefield when he was a child.

If his sword arm is what Hashirama desires without the mind and the body that goes along with it, the arm is what he shall have.

Never let it be said that Tobirama does not love his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you form a mob and run Hashirama down with pitchforks...remember, this chapter is Tobirama's POV. While Hashirama may have said some nasty things in anger (haven't we all at some point?), Tobirama is the one interpreting it all and cranking that dial up to 1000. That's not to say that Toblerone is completely at fault here, but there is absolutely nothing normal about his reaction/response. Black and white morality doesn't have a home in this fic. ;D


	2. Tobirama POV 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a moment, he will no longer be Senju Tobirama, son of Senju Butsuma, and second in command of the Senju clan.

“Would you like to experience the pain, or should I block it?”

Tobirama looks up at his clone and purses his lips in consideration. “No,” he finally says, “I’ve had enough pain for one day, I think.” His clone nods and returns to the task of disinfecting his bicep and preparing for surgery.

It’s not that he’s a coward. He has many unflattering appellations—an emotionless beast, a piss poor sibling, a smear on the honor of the Senju name—but ‘coward’ is not one of them. It’s just that Hashirama’s condemnation still batters at his heart and weighs heavy enough that any more agony will likely break him. That final rending is not his to take. The choice to destroy him completely lies with another, and as soon as he is done here, he will march to the border and give Uchiha Madara that last key to his unmaking.

There are three scrolls packed away in a small leather satchel, each with a different path to peace delineated in his sharp, angular hand. His Anija will have the dream he’s always wanted and Tobirama’s sword arm to serve him as he pleases—be it as decoration or an allegorical warning to incoming clans. And Tobirama will have…well, that will vary depending on which of the three paths the Uchiha clan head chooses. If any. There’s always the chance that the scouts will waylay him before he can offer his complete and utter capitulation to Madara, ‘do not engage’ order or no. 

“We’re ready,” the clone announces as he blots at the last white patch of skin visible through the wash of iodine. “Is there anything you must do before I remove the limb? Once it’s done, you won’t be able to fashion hand signs.”

They’re both aware. Tobirama doesn’t know why he bothers to state the obvious.

“Do it,” he replies shortly. In a moment, he will no longer be Senju Tobirama, son of Senju Butsuma, and second in command of the Senju clan. Instead, he will be a specter of the man he once was and more powerful for it. His sacrifice will prove his love and fealty to his brother or it won’t. Either way, he’ll have tried.

“Very well.”

The first cut is painless—nothing more than an initial pressure just below the tourniquet, a sudden give, and warmth seeping under his shoulder and down his side. Tobirama lies motionless on the stretch of animal hide and watches slips of sunlight dance amongst the leaves behind the shoji screens.

It’s beautiful. Soft. Things he has never been.

He knows when his clone hits bone. There’s a jolt of pain where the Iryo ninjutsu failed to deaden the nerve complex fully. Hissing, he grits his teeth and narrows his eyes only to receive a baleful glance in turn. A subtle burst of chakra and the pain fades as if it had never been there.

His clone’s deft hands finish cutting through the flesh and begin to probe into the schism to palpate precisely where the bone falls. There’s the telltale scrape of metal being brought to bear, then a sound not unlike sawing lumber. It’s thicker, more wet, but close enough to make Tobirama smile.

He doesn’t think Hashirama would appreciate the joke.

His body rocks under the force of the bone saw, first up, then down as far as the skin of his back allows on each rhythmic stroke. It takes longer than he would have imagined to finally make it through. When it does, he feels as if a weight has been lifted. No name, no future, no expectations. Wind blows the silhouettes of leaves into a checkered wave of shadow and light across the rice paper and he’s happy to note a warm flush of satisfaction.

His life now only exists in the moment and this one is sublime.

There’s shuffling off to his right as his clone cleans the area and prepares his amputated limb to be delivered to his brother the following morning. He returns soon enough and kneels back down onto the floor, knees hitting with a jarring thump.

“The surgery went well. Now, I’ll need to shape the residual limb,” he narrates for his own benefit more than Tobirama’s. Before the words fade, the pressure is back on Tobirama’s arm. He refuses to watch, but he’s well aware of the way his clone is rounding off the spurs of bone, filing them down to then pull muscle over the cap and bind it all with stretched skin. There won’t be any scars, he’s too good at his craft for that. It will be one smooth stub of an appendage—pale and pristine as if his sword arm and his standing as a shinobi were never his own. And they weren’t. Not really.

Another hour passes if the quality of the sunlight is anything to go by, then the tourniquet is released and an additional burst of chakra is applied to destroy whatever lactic acid built up in the process.

When Senju Tobirama sits up, he’s free. 

There’s a weightlessness to his chest that has little to do with the loss of flesh on his right.

“Thank you,” he whispers breathlessly.

His clone nods and gifts him with an equally unencumbered smile. “We did well. Go bathe. When you return, I will have your things ready to travel.”

Tobirama staggers to his feet, not yet used to the shifting of his center of gravity. With a supporting hand under his arm, he finds a tentative balance and goes to perform his ablutions. It will take some time to get used to the asymmetry. He manages well enough, considering.

Washing his body is ritualistic and simple despite having only one arm to handle the bucket and soaps. Preparing himself as a man expecting to be taken by another is harder, that difficulty having nothing to do with his singular limb. Still, he will not be found wanting on any of the three paths Madara chooses.

His death, his servitude, or his role in a marriage bed—he will perform his duty with the same steadfast determination he always has. When the last bucket of water is emptied, he dries himself perfunctorily and returns to his room to be attended.

Without asking, his clone helps him into a thin, cotton yukata of a blue so rich it stands out in stark contrast against his pale thighs. It makes no sense to waste any more fabric on a body that will be destroyed or laid bare within a day’s time. Inhaling deeply, Tobirama takes in one last lungful of the scent of home, and picks up his satchel.

“Do not stay any longer than you must,” he warns the clone. “Deliver the arm to Anija and disburse immediately. I cannot afford to be swayed.”

“Of course. I understand.”

He doesn’t wish himself good luck—he’s not so self-absorbed as that—but it’s a near thing.


	3. Tobirama POV 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never intended for his capitulation to become such a spectacle.

Not having been Madara’s match on the field, what Tobirama knows of him consists of anecdotes and stolen glances from half a league away. The clan head is shorter than he remembers. Even so, he’s broad in the same way that Anija is—built for strength and endurance—and holds himself with natural poise. There’s no questioning that he’s a consummate shinobi. Everything about him is honed for it.

“Nii-san,” Izuna calls out as soon as his brother comes to a stop before them. He grabs Madara’s sleeve and looks to him with tension in his shoulders and Sharingan activated. “This isn’t my doing,” he hisses under his breath.

If not for the tenuousness of the situation, Tobirama would laugh. Of course his crippling isn’t Izuna’s to claim. His rival is immensely powerful and has come close to killing him more times than he can count, but taking an arm requires a greater cruelty than he’s ever shown. Izuna has only ever offered him a quick, clean death. Cunning machinations aside, the man has too much honor to sentence his opponents to a half-life.

That purview is Tobirama’s alone.

“What’s not your—” Madara begins, brow furrowed, only to look over his brother’s shoulder and finally take in the situation in its entirety. “Oh.”

Tobirama knows he’s inadvertently made quite the scene—kneeling on the ground in the failing light of evening with barely enough fabric on his lap to cover his loins.

When the scouting party first made contact with him, he made certain to telegraph his movements as he placed his satchel on the ground before stepping back and sinking into seiza. Knowing that his word held no weight, he immediately began to strip himself down to the waist to show that he didn’t pose a threat, that he had no sword arm or jutsu to bring to bear. In hindsight, he probably should have been more culturally sensitive.

Madara studies him long enough to take in the state of his undress and turns away.

“Whatever this is about, you have less than two seconds to spit it out, Senju,” he snarls, gaze averted. Though, before Tobirama can reply, Madara cuts him off. “And where’s your arm?”

Tobirama sighs. He’s very much tempted to say he misplaced it.

“I’ve come to offer the Uchiha a proposal of peace,” he states without inflection. “As for my arm, it was removed as a show of good will.”

Leaves shuffle loudly as Izuna shifts his weight then falls still at his brother’s side. A handful of chakra signatures flicker in surprise from the team of Uchiha crouching unseen in the trees around them. 

“Good will?” Madara seemingly overcomes his modesty in favor of staring Tobirama down, head cocked. His bangs fall to cover the majority of his face, but Tobirama can still hear the frown in his voice, the way his already deep baritone slips even lower. “You had someone cut off your arm? The _Senju heir’s_ arm. Why would I ever—Hashirama knows I would have accepted less.”

“My actions are my own, and I didn’t amputate my arm as a show of good will to you, Uchiha,” Tobirama snaps back before he can manage to subdue his tone or obscure the implication. 

There’s a sharp inhale.

“This is insane,” Izuna says, viciously rubbing his face with his hands. “Completely horse-shit crazy. We should go. Just—just leave him here.”

And Tobirama has to agree. This _is_ insane. He never intended for his capitulation to become such a spectacle. Even so, leaving empty-handed is not an option.

“The state of my appendages means nothing. In the satchel, you’ll find three scrolls, each with a different option drafted for peace negotiations. I’m well aware that you share my brother’s dream, Uchiha Madara, just as I know that your clan will never accept his overtures without leverage. To that end, I offer myself.” His voice rings out with conviction from where he sits on the ground like a servitor with the bearing of a lord.

After a long moment of contemplation, his earnestness proves to be enough.

Madara approaches the bag, hips swaying as he stalks forward like a predator and crouches down on his haunches not a pace away. As loyal as ever, Izuna follows if only to tug at the collar of his brother’s mantle in warning. “Don’t trust this Senju bastard. It’s a trap, I know it is. He’s going to take us both out with whatever is in there,” he warns, nightmare eyes spinning faster as he stares Tobirama down.

Tobirama meets them without flinching.

“He’s a cripple. What by the Sage do you think half a man can do?” Madara shoots back over his shoulder.

Now that makes Tobirama wince, a reaction that goes unremarked , but not unnoticed. As if the small, simple show of weakness was all Izuna was waiting for, he shoots forward and goes to his knees next to Madara. A kunai appears in one hand as he slaps the satchel back down into the dirt.

“You don’t know him like I do. He hates us. _Hates_ us, Nii-san! The minute you turn your back, he’s going to find some way to murder every last person in our clan. This is just another one of his tricks and we can’t fall for it. Let me slit his throat and we’ll leave him to the crows,” Izuna begins slowly, gaining momentum as his knuckles turn white with determination on the handle of his kunai. Puffs of condensation escape his lips with each shallow breath.

Madara snaps his head around and snarls in warning. “Izuna…” His obvious displeasure doesn’t dam the seemingly endless stream of words, though.

“With this asshole out of the way it won’t be hard to annihilate the rest of the Senju. We’ll take our peace and he won’t be around to—” 

“Izuna!” Madara roars, chakra flaring so bright it illuminates the night.

“ _He won’t be around to suffer for it!_ ”

Oh.

Kindness is not something Tobirama had expected.

Even Anija has never fought for him so vehemently—crouching with wild eyes and yelling in the face of family to protect his integrity as both a ninja and a man. It makes sense that his long-time rival would feel offset by the sudden power vacuum, but he makes it almost seem as if he cares. There’s a chill to the approaching night that raises gooseflesh along his arms. Surely that’s all it is.

Tobirama pointedly clears his throat. “If you are through with the dramatics, the missives, please,” he drawls, absently flicking his hair out of his face. Without the familiar comfort of his happuri to tame it, it’s grown long enough to be a nuisance, he notes absently.

The Uchiha brothers’ attention flicks first to him with identical expressions of reproach, then to the leather satchel. Taking a deep, bracing breath, Madara shoves Izuna back hard enough to land him on his bottom, then removes the first scroll.

“Your warning is noted. Now sit down and shut-up, Otouto,” he commands in a manner softer than his words. 

Tobirama spends the next two hours in silence while Madara reads and mutters under his breath, taking some small pleasure in the warmth of the flames that pop up around the small glade. His legs buzz from sitting in seiza for too long and his right arm aches as if it’s still there. Which is strange. His clone healed the wound well. There shouldn’t be any residual pain, much less this queer phantom sensation of flexing joints he no longer has.

As the night deepens, the shock of what he’s done begins to register. There’s a sixty-six percent probability that he will make it through this alive and he only just now realizes that he never considered the ramifications of having to live like this. When he was drafting the missives it was as if he was discussing someone else’s life, someone who would carry through the day whole in body if not in spirit.

It’s not like him to be so shortsighted. 

If he had a way to dispel his clone before morning comes, he would. He’s been unkind and Hashirama—his Anija was cruel, but not deserving of this. It’s too late now.

Before Tobirama’s thoughts can grow any darker, Madara clears his throat. “You’re serious?” he asks with a note of disbelief.

Tobirama narrows his eyes. As if he has ever been anything other.

“Okay,” Madara says, nodding to himself and smacking the thickest of the scrolls against his thigh—the marriage contract. The tapping gains a metronomic quality. “Okay. This can work. I can do something with this.” There’s a brusqueness to his touch as he scoots close enough to pull Tobirama’s yukata back to rights. The brush of his glove carefully skirts the line of Tobirama’s exposed clavicle and lingers on his throat before falling away.

“Burn these.” He tosses the remaining scrolls to Izuna who closes his eyes and does as bidden, rubbing his recently grazed ribs with an expression Tobirama has never seen before.

It looks like guilt. 


	4. Hashirama POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, tensions had been high and Hashirama was still coming down from the disappointment of another refusal. He had been…unkind.

Hashirama wakes slowly, hooding his eyes as he rolls away from an errant patch of sunlight. There’s not much to do today; he can afford to laze about on his futon for an hour or so and let the dawn steadily warm his toes. Luxuriating in the familiar sounds of home isn’t a pleasure he’s afforded often since taking the mantle of clan head. This morning, he’s going to savor it.

He falls back into a light doze, murmuring softly and startling himself awake with his own voice a short time later. The sun has shifted enough to illuminate the wall of rice paper panels in a pretty panoply of light. Tobi always comments on it—has enjoyed watching the soft glow since they were kids. 

The memory makes him smile even as his chest tightens.

Tobirama.

His precious otouto.

After the battle, tensions had been high and Hashirama was still coming down from the disappointment of another refusal. He had been…unkind. There’s no excusing the things he said, or at least the way he said them.

His brother is just so quick to kill. Single-minded and determined even though Hashirama has told him time and time again to think before he strikes. Tobirama is fast and skilled in ways even he isn’t, surely it can’t be that hard to turn a blade or avoid direct confrontation altogether. There are other ways, too. He’s a little cold, but he’s surprisingly good at speeches. If Tobi could work on convincing Izuna to give peace a try instead of skewering him, they would have a much easier time of things.

Groaning, Hashirama pulls a handful of hair over his face. Who is he kidding? His mokuton would sooner give birth to puppies.

Too unsettled to idle in bed any longer, he sits up with a grunt and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Tobirama is usually around to massage the stiffness from his lower back after a skirmish. He wonders briefly where he got off to, lamenting fond wishes of honing oil and his brother’s strong hands.

Oh well. Breakfast, then.

His stomach growls as if on cue, surprising a bark of laughter from him. However, before he can get up to have the servants prepare his typical grilled mackerel and miso soup, there’s a hard, familiar rap on his door.

“Perfect timing, Tobi!” he says in lieu of a greeting.

Tobirama slides open the shoji screen and steps in with the same silent, assured stride with which he stalks the battlefield. It’s weird. Normally he’ll at least shuffle a little bit or let his shoulders relax when he’s home like this. Hashirama writes it off as another of his brother’s peculiarities.

“I was about to go eat but now that you’re here,” he pauses, cocking his head and jutting out his lower lip. “You’re not here. Why the clone?”

“My apologies, Anija, I had pressing matters to attend to elsewhere,” the clone states with a formal half-bow. He closes the door behind himself and kneels an arm’s length away from the edge of Hashirama’s futon. “I have simply come to deliver a gift to you, then I will dispel myself.”

“A gift?” Hashirama asks, perking up. His otouto is sweet to think he needs to give presents as an apology. They both made mistakes yesterday and said things that don’t bear repeating. Still, it warms Hashirama’s heart to see Tobirama taking the first step in making amends. He really is a good brother.

He accepts the silk-wrapped package with a smile as bright as the midmorning sun. Flicking his hair back over his shoulder, he settles the surprisingly heavy gift in his lap and unfastens the red fabric, only belatedly realizing his hands are wet.

Blood gathers in the arches of his palms and drips down along his brown skin, slowly spreading along the whiteness of his duvet.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice turning hard. It’s an arm, he can see that much. Even though it’s cool to the touch, there’s no obvious sign of decomposition or swelling—clearly Tobirama’s doing to abort the natural order of things.

“It is both a gift and a promise. You now have complete control of my sword arm, as you requested. I have also taken measures to ensure that your trust in me has not been misplaced. No matter the cost, you will always have me to rely on, Anija.” Tobirama smiles, blinking slowly.

It takes a moment to process the words and pair them with the insinuation of darker things. When it all finally clicks, Hashirama’s heart stops. He flings the grotesque body part away and tears off his bedding. The blood has already seeped through to his sleeping yukata and he can’t help but stare down at it in horror.

“Where is he?” he whispers, desperately pawing at his front and only succeeding in spreading the stain. The room wavers. “ _Where is my brother?_ ”

Sighing, Tobirama reaches into the folds of his obi to unsheathe a tanto. “I was instructed not to say,” he replies, tone cool and easy despite Hashirama’s panic. “I’ve already asked for your breakfast to be prepared. Enjoy your morning, Anija.”

As if he could ever enjoy another morning again. His brother is gone and the only thing left is a grisly reminder of words flung like kunai the day before. He will have Tobirama back or he’ll tear all of Fire Country apart in the search. Anything that can be broken can be healed—an arm or a bond, it can be fixed. There’s still time.

Mokuton rips through the floorboards and snaps the clone’s wrist before the tanto blade can strike true. Between breaths, Hashirama is on him, hands fisted in his kimono and teeth bared. Blood smears across Tobirama’s throat as Hashirama shifts his grip and pins him to the writhing floor.

“ _Where?_ ” he roars with all the unrelenting force of the forest’s might. His chakra tears furrows in the ceiling, letting loose a rain of dust. 

Eyes wide, Tobirama chokes and goes completely still under him. “I—” He coughs until his eyes stream and the hold on his throat finally loosens enough to speak. “I have sold myself to Uchiha Madara in pursuit of peace. No matter the personal outcome, you will have your dream, Anija,” he says as if confused as to why his brother is so incensed by this logic.

Before Hashirama’s strangled scream dies, Tobirama’s clone manages to pry loose a piece of the floorboard and bury it deep into his thigh. He dispels in a puff of smoke that has Hashirama cradling a pile of shattered lumber instead of his baby brother.

He screams again—long and loud—until his lungs ache. Even then, his jaw hangs wide in silence as his dismay overwhelms his drive to breath. His throat clicks wetly and tears run unimpeded. Finally—when blackness encroaches on his vision—his stomach gives and air whooshes back into his chest.

He’ll have his otouto back.

Madara is fundamentally good. He knows this peace they dream of is for their brothers and would never do anything to jeopardize that.

Hashirama will have his otouto back.

He will.


	5. Izuna POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody understands Tobirama like Izuna does.

Tobirama is nothing if not deferential, as befitting a husband.

He carries out the edicts of Hashirama’s every word or whim, as befitting a brother.

When not striving to fulfill those primary roles, he tirelessly formulates plans for consideration in improving the village’s infrastructure, as befitting a clansman.

Not to say he does those things without snide commentary and a haughty attitude, but there’s an insidious lack of regard for his own wants and needs—nothing about him is his own. It’s disgusting. And for some reason, Izuna seems to be the only one who notices. Madara is too busy marinating in the trappings of peace with one idiot Senju and falling between the thighs of the other. Hashirama, while solicitous to a fault after having nearly lost his brother, still doesn’t _understand_ him.

Not like Izuna does. 

Tobirama is sick, and Izuna resolves to change that. Not fix—wounds that deep tend to fester—but he can at least ease some of that burden. Promoting even a smattering of intrinsic self-worth will be a victory, he thinks. If he has to revert to underhanded tactics to do so, well that’s just an added bonus.

“Hey, Snowflake, Madara wants you to fill this out,” he calls out into the house they all share, waving a rolled-up sheaf of papers about. Dirt gathers on the engawa from the soles of his sandals and he chews his lip in eager anticipation of the diatribe it’s going to earn him.

There’s a soft clatter down the hall and Tobirama rounds the corner in all of his glory, striding forward with death in his eyes.

“You’re going to clean that up,” he announces as he holds his hand out expectantly.

And, oh, the curled lip and twitching eyebrow are like New Year’s prayers answered by the Kami. If he plays his part right, Izuna thinks he may even be able to tease out that stupid expression Tobirama gets when he’s trying not to recall ever being a shinobi—and _failing_.

“Hmm,” he hums, offering the scroll just outside of reach, “I don’t think I am.”

Success. There’s the flared nostrils, the long, slow inhale that precluded their skirmishes back when they used to face off on the battlefield. Tobirama steps closer, following the papers with his eyes as Izuna continues to gesticulate with them.

“You know how delicate my hands are,” he presses, holding them aloft and using the motion to whip the scroll out of Tobirama’s reach once again. “As soft as the Daimyo’s! They just weren’t made for menial labor like yours are. Is?”

Though he’ll never admit it, his heart jumps when Tobirama finally clenches his jaw and softens his knees in preparation for an attack. There’s nothing simultaneously more beautiful and terrifying than this man in the midst of a lunge. Those long legs closing the gap between them, hands upraised and flashing through jutsu signs faster than a lightning strike. It’s arresting. The fire in his eyes could rival the passion of any Uchiha—and in those moments of single-minded focus, when thoughts of brothers and clan fall away, Izuna has never seen him more alive.

Except that the attack never comes.

Instead, Tobirama blows out the breath he was holding and lets the tension in his body leave along with it. “Then don’t. I’ll address it later.” Blinking slowly, he turns in place and begins to walk back towards the chabudai in their central living space where tea and a well-worn book wait.

Fuck. He was so close—thought he actually had the Senju bastard this time. All it would have taken was one impulsive punch to let loose the sluice gates, he’s sure of it. To get a taste of acting out of turn for selfish reasons. Tobirama is so staunchly opposed to training, crafting jutsu, or anything even remotely related to the warrior that his right arm used to represent. One slip is all Izuna needs to start bringing down the walls of filial piety that keep him cloistered in self-loathing.

Like knocking out the keystone, that’s where the root of Tobirama’s hang-ups lie. Izuna suspects it began with Senju Butsuma's heavy hand, but that’s strictly conjecture.

Running his tongue along the points of his incisors, he follows, affecting a bright smile when Tobirama sits down on the tatami mats and looks up at him indifferently. With his pale skin and white kimono, he looks like the ghost of a feudal lord.

It’s an oddly fitting image. 

“I have neither the time nor the patience for your nonsense. If you won’t let me have it, then read what Madara would ask of me,” he snaps, resorting to that tone of aloofness that makes Izuna’s skin crawl.

“Oh, pull the sheath out of your ass, already. Here,” Izuna scoffs, lazily tossing the scroll just short of Tobirama’s reach so he has to lean for it. Except he doesn’t. Tobirama lets it fall, watching the twine unravel as it rolls towards his thigh. Only then does he pick it up and finish freeing the documents with his teeth.

A brief list of problems regarding the institution of an academy for learning are listed in descending order from most to least pressing. Each line smacks of impatience, written in Madara’s sharp, angular kanji and expertly crafted in such a way to imply deference to a higher authority on the subject—Izuna should know, he forged the thing, after all.

Tobirama’s brow rises as he reads, face softening.

“This is…are you sure he—” Tobirama begins, still staring at the paper, eyes still.

He’s such a lovely man when cowed by validation.

“I’m sure he’s gargling a katon jutsu in his office waiting on you to quit your stalling and fix this mess already,” Izuna quips. He may be laying it on a bit thick, but the prod seems to do the trick.

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m ready when you are.”

Izuna sinks down next to his pet project and takes liberties, leaning against his right side and resting his head on Tobirama’s shoulder. He can feel the sudden tension under his cheek, but he knows Tobirama won’t shove him away—he _can’t_ without putting down the scroll and reaching across his body. Pride keeps him steady and stiff.

“Ready to what?” he asks, making a point of smoothing the wrinkles from the front of Tobirama’s kimono. It’s such a fine, expensive silk and so out of place. He’ll have to replace it with shinobi blacks as soon as possible.

“Ready to dictate my responses,” Tobirama says dryly.

“No.”

He knows exactly what’s coming before it’s even voiced and struggles to keep from laughing.

“ _Excuse me_?”

“I said ‘no,’” Izuna drawls, nuzzling into the warm shoulder that smells so much like their home. “’Sweep up after yourself’, ‘write my shit’—what do you think I am? You know what, don’t answer that. If you want to reply to Nii-san, you’re going to have to do it yourself. And hopefully sometime within the next five years so he doesn’t blow up the tower and everyone along with it.”

Everything falls still and quiet but for Tobirama’s labored breaths.

There was one memorable occasion where he went silent for two weeks following Hashirama’s insistent suggestion to either craft a prosthetic limb or grow a new one. The rejection of what Tobirama saw as the ultimate show of his loyalty broke him. Oddly enough, it was Madara who managed to pull him out of that one by some miracle. Their illustrious Hokage never did figure out why the offer was so vehemently denied. Forcing the man to take up a quill again is a small step in comparison. Still, for a brief moment, Izuna thinks he may have pushed a little too far, miscalculated by a hairsbreadth.

Closing his eyes, Tobirama forcibly brings his breathing back under control and holds his hand out just as he had for the sheaf of papers. This time, Izuna doesn’t deny him. He quickly pulls a brush set from one of the satchels on his waist and prepares the ink with practiced ease. As soon as it’s ready, he presses the brush handle against Tobirama’s palm and feels a flush of triumph when their fingers tangle.

“Madara will not be able to,” Tobirama begins, only to stop and change tracks. “I will need your guidance.” The admission comes out small, as if the magnitude of what he’s about to do leaves him bare.

This is his opening. Izuna can’t keep the softness from his expression entirely. Tobirama is going to be his by the end of all of this—more than a tool, more than a golem. He’s going to be the equal partner Madara deserves, a supportive brother to Hashirama without sacrificing everything of himself.

He’s going to be worthy of the name Senju Tobirama and, more importantly than all of that, worthy of himself. 

“Don’t worry. You’ll learn,” Izuna states with a self-satisfied grin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GORGEOUS commissioned art for this verse: [ Go check Perelka out! I adore their art style. <3](https://perelka-l.tumblr.com/post/188856303903/a-commission-for-writhingbeneathyou-who)
> 
> Future Amputation-verse additions will be posted here instead of the horror anthology.


	6. Madara POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘It’s not too late,’ Izuna’s words echo, reminding Madara there’s still another chance to try.

Tobirama’s hair has grown long over the past year. Where once it framed his face in a haphazard fringe, now it hangs well past his chin, swept to favor one side with the back half swirled up into a top-knot as is the prevailing fashion. Izuna’s influence, of course. Still, Madara can’t fault his brother’s insistence that he grow it out.

Tobirama is breathtaking. All long, pale lines, his allure is only accentuated by the waves of silver sliding across his collarbone like silk as he dips and twirls through the steps of the autumnal dance to come.

It’s to be a formal celebration for the anniversary of founding their newly established village. Elaborate costumes, song, games, and general reverie. Three days of festivities culminating in a grand dance to honor the main-line of each founding clan. Hashirama and his Uzumaki bride will dance until the sun wanes and Madara will guide his own husband through those same steps under the light of the moon.

Their intricate choreography will harken a new age.

And so, filled with anticipation for things to come, Konoha in the past weeks has been a hotbed of freneticism and joy—everyone eager to experience the novelty of enjoying themselves without the looming threat of genocide. Peace has been a blessing to them all in uncountable ways.

It’s going to be divine.

Or at least it will be if Madara manages not to string his last and only sibling up by the tendons of his traitorous hands.

“I’m sure there’s a good reason for why you’re dancing with my husband,” he announces, storming his way across the delicately swept sand of the rock garden Tobirama enjoys terrascaping. He knows he’ll pay for each sinking depression in a thousand chilly ways, but it’s the quickest route from the engawa to the mossy plot where Izuna thinks to take liberties.

Tobirama spins to an abrupt stop, arm upraised and white kimono swinging to settle in a smooth line from his hips. Those same hips where Izuna’s hands rest. His brother cocks his head, smirking with all the innocence of a blood-lipped shark.

“Nii-san! Didn’t expect you back for another few hours,” he says, patting Tobirama’s obi before reluctantly pulling away. There’s a distinctly self-satisfied swing in his gait as he turns towards Madara and closes the distance between them.

“Obviously,” Madara snaps. He tries to be patient, truly he does. His husband is a man capable of making his own choices, not a prize to be defended, but it doesn’t stop the jealousy from curdling in his stomach, heavy and nausea-inducing. Izuna knows how strongly Madara feels, how deep the roots of the Uchiha curse of love have spread, yet still he insists on pushing where it’s not his place. Casual touches and mundane yet thoughtful favors are the weapons he wields now that his katana has been sheathed, all of them aimed at the Senju. There’s history there and Madara resents the connection that lingers. More than that, he resents the fact that he himself hadn’t thought of those things first. 

The realization stings.

“Excuse us, we need to have a word,” he barks, brokering no argument as he fists Izuna’s kimono in one hand and stomps back to the relative privacy of the engawa. Izuna’s knowing grin only drives him to walk faster, to drive his heel strikes so hard his sandals flap.

The heat of Tobirama’s gaze follows them back through the rock garden—already adulterated beyond a simple fix by Madara’s impulsivity, as everything else has been in this damned marriage. He tries, truly he does, but nothing is easy. Nothing ever slots into place as naturally as it does between the man whose vow he holds and his brother. 

His last brother, he has to remind himself.

Mounting the engawa, Madara turns sharply and drags Izuna close enough to smell the peppermint tea on his breath, Tobirama’s favorite. The reminder of the afternoon tea he missed—discussing simple things, civilian things in the sunlight with the grass dewy under his and Tobirama’s kimonos—stings. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarls, voice so deep it makes the sand they’ve tracked in shudder its way between the floor’s hardwood slats. He’ll have to sweep that. Tobirama is accommodating to a fault, but not when it comes to cleanliness.

Izuna rolls his eyes, toying with the immaculate, white tie of his haori himo. “Doing _your_ husbandly duties, apparently,” he drawls, in no way impressed by the bleed of red circling Madara’s irises. “Or did you forget you were supposed to be teaching Tobi the choreography for the festival dance? Oh, I know!” He holds up a finger, a hairsbreadth from having it bitten off for the insult. “You expected him to learn three-hundred years of Uchiha tradition by osmosis. Truly, how could I have doubted your all-knowing ways, Nii-san?”

Izuna has always been a conniving, petulant brat, and one Madara adores with every aspect of his being. It’s just that sometimes he has to remind himself of that fraternal bond in recent months. Without the tide of war to keep him occupied, Izuna has resorted to turning his cleverness inward and using it to incite a reaction in the people closest to him. He plays them all like a game of shogi against some invisible opponent.

No Uchiha has been spared his meddling, least of all Tobirama and himself. It’s bizarre and all the more frustrating that Madara can’t see the purpose, though he knows there is one. There’s always a reason for Izuna’s particular brand of obfuscation after all, he just can’t quite parse out the shape of it yet. Though, some of the glimpses he’s been allowed reflect the light like a retired happuri.

Swallowing the bulk of his discomfort, Madara spreads his feet and softens his knees to brace himself for whatever may come. “That’s my husband and my duty,” he forces out through clenched teeth.

Snorting, Izuna goes up on the balls of his feet to plant a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose. “And you were obviously busy with our dear, illustrious Hokage. I was worried that you wouldn’t have the time, so I took it on myself to fulfill my _brotherly_ duties,” he says, emphasizing the word with a coy flutter of his lashes.

Curse Tajima for passing on his looks to someone so well versed in their power.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

Disgusted by both his overreaction and the fact that his brother is right, Madara unclenches his fists from Izuna’s kimono and pumps them to relieve the lingering stiffness. He looks away, knowing that doing so is as good as admitting defeat, yet unable to stop himself.

Pale limbs and white silk flow through the garden from whence they came—swift as the Naka and twice as graceful. Tobirama is a man as fallible as any other. Even so, he shimmers in Madara’s vision, a cold light cutting through his study in midwinter to warm him where the brazier under his kotatsu could never reach. He hadn’t intended to care, to see this marital bond as anything more than a convenient, man-shaped covenant.

And if he’s honest with himself, that’s what hurts the most.

He envies Izuna the easy camaraderie he’s built here. Madara sees the way Tobirama’s sharp edges dull around him, how he comes to life at the challenge. He wants those things, that glimpse of passion for himself. It’s been a year and he’s still no closer to thawing Tobirama’s icy heart than he was that first day in the woods when he served as axe-man for the Senju’s future.

“Tobirama was contracted to me,” he argues as all of the fight leaves him. Leaden arms fall to his side and still he watches Tobirama dance alone in the sunshine.

Sighing, Izuna approaches his side and bullies up against it, nudging his way through the waterfall of hair and emotional defenses alike.

“Contracted, how romantic,” he teases, though his tone is sober and his head heavy against Madara’s chest. “I’m going to share a secret with you, Nii-san, because I love you so much and you’re kind of dense. You see the way he bows and scrapes when you or Hashirama are around? You two treat him like a thing and he goes along with it because that’s all he thinks he is too. A pretty little cock sleeve for you and a posable doll for his brother. If you really want Tobirama,” he pauses to lick his lips, “like the _actual_ Tobirama, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

It’s a reaffirmation of all of the things Madara has considered in the past and never acted on to change, and Indra’s balls does it burn to hear those points said aloud. Each one hits like a senbon—a thousand stings culminating in one gaping wound the shape of his heart.

“I treat him like my husband, not the charity case you make him out to be,” he murmurs woodenly. They both know he doesn’t mean it, that the words are just the final death throes of a man who has already been felled.

Shaking his head, Izuna reaches up to pat his cheek, gentle at first, then a single sharp slap. “Don’t ever say that shit again. This is the first time since the academy proposal edits that he’s actually smiled. He comes alive whenever he’s a part of something bigger than himself. He deserves to be human and for some strange reason he looks to you for his cues as to when that’s allowed to happen.”

“I don’t know why,” Madara admits. Amazing how painful it is when one’s worldview shifts on its axis.

“Me neither, but he does.”

They stand together sharing the warmth of a half-embrace while they watch long enough for the sun to shift two fingers. Butterflies flit through the stands of tree peonies—white and blood red to match the blossom that has been gifted to the Uchiha through no sacrifice of their own.

It’s time they amend that slight. It’s time they—no, it’s time _he_ makes himself deserving of Uchiha Tobirama’s honest devotion. 

“What does he want, Otouto? Every time I ask all I get is what I want to hear. I’ve never questioned it,” Madara acknowledges, his chest aching and throat raw knowing that he has only himself to blame. He should have known that such easy capitulation was dishonest, an unasked for martyrdom that only Madara himself benefitted from and never thought to delve further into. He’s no better than Hashirama in that regard.

Breathing has never been so laborious. 

“Do you think it’s still possible for me to earn his love as we are now? Or if it isn’t, is it too late try something else?” he asks, too selfish to give up all connection completely. 

Across the way, Tobirama stumbles near imperceptibly. Strange to see him off balance, at least since he adjusted to his new center of gravity in those first weeks following his amputation. He picks up the steps seamlessly once more and undulates his body to match a silent drumbeat as if the gaffe never happened. 

Izuna groans and pinches Madara’s waist so hard he hisses at the sting. “No, you idiot, it’s not too late, you just have to listen for once. Show him that those ears aren’t just for decoration and that you want him for him, not what he can do for you. Come to think of it, Tobirama can probably teach you a thing or two about listening. He has _great_ chakra-enhanced hearing, so there’s that.”

This is what Madara’s life has come to because the world has spent nearly thirty years contriving a means for how best to get back at him for being born. That’s the only possible explanation for Uchiha Izuna’s place on this earth.

“You two have fun,” Izuna sing songs as he ducks out of Madara’s hold and shoves him off of the engawa with a solid sandal to the back. Before Madara can whip back around and blast a katon jutsu through the little shit , he’s gone in a gust of leaves.

The only remnants of his presence are dirty foot prints and an overwhelming urge to drink.

Clenching his jaw, Madara forcibly expels his burgeoning chakra into the ground, tracking a trail of glass footprints across Tobirama’s garden and trampling his own patch of maple seedlings for good measure.

“My brother is dead to me,” he states in lieu of a proper greeting.

Tobirama has no such reserve when it comes to social niceties between them. He slows his steps and uses the momentum to dip into a graceful bow—one fit for a civilian towards a lord, not something between husbands, though Madara has never stopped him before.

‘It’s not too late,’ Izuna’s words echo, reminding Madara there’s still another chance to try. He swoops in low to intercept the obeisance. Tobirama’s residual limb is soft in his hand, nowhere near as well defined as the other despite the regimented training he still performs throughout the day to keep his body fit.

“At least he will be once I murder him in his sleep,” Madara finishes as he absently reaches to wipe the sweat from Tobirama’s brow.

Red eyes snap up to devour him whole.

“You won’t,” Tobirama proclaims with the lopsided smirk of a right bastard.

Madara hates how weak that mocking dare makes him. “And why the hell wouldn’t I?” he continues in hopes of covering how his pulse quickens. From the way Tobirama glances first to his bared neck, then to the color in his cheeks, it’s a moot point.

The small height difference between them is just enough that when he steps in close, Madara has to look up into the face of his destroyer.

“Because familial love is one of your most admirable qualities,” Tobirama states simply. He maneuvers first Madara’s left hand, then his right to take hold of his hips.

Then, they take the first step in a dance that will see them through the night, and longer if Madara can convince him of it.

He’ll listen this time.

He’ll try harder. 

For Tobirama.


	7. Tobirama POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months of preparation and the festival is finally realized. The costumes and dress are handsome, the pomp is interesting in its novelty, and the smiles on faces unaccustomed to the task lend a genjutsu-like quality to the evening. It’s a lovely event from what little of it Tobirama has cared to observe in passing.

Two months of preparation and the festival is finally realized.

The costumes and dress are handsome, the pomp is interesting in its novelty, and the smiles on faces unaccustomed to the task lend a genjutsu-like quality to the evening. It’s a lovely event from what little of it Tobirama has cared to observe in passing.

He’s too devoted to memorizing how his husband, the moon, reflects Hashirama’s light in a cool simulacra that nevertheless makes him feel whole. Somewhere in the midst of learning how they slotted together as dance partners, Tobirama has discovered the seed of joy in his marital union with Madara as well.

Now, they orbit each other in smooth, measured steps. The choreography has been altered to allow the gravity of their connection to bring them back in time and time again, to meet in chaste kisses or gentle brushes of skin.

Sweat drips down his neck to soak into the collar of his yukata. It’s nearly translucent from the waist up at this point, but modesty is hardly a concern when Madara’s body is on him, around him, supporting him each step of the way.

Uchiha Madara has been a gift that continues to give.

Tobirama idolizes this irascible man for his more intangible traits—dignity, passion, honor. He’s proud to be able to submit to Madara in name, in flesh, and in everything that comprises him, because those things serve Hashirama through him. Fealty to his anija is the only goal worth having in life. How fortunate that Tobirama chose the right temple at which to prostrate himself for those prayers to be heard.

Interesting how offering up a heart is more forgivable than an arm.

Regardless, let them think him recovered from an ailment he never had. Maybe now they’ll let his sacrifice stand and leave him be. Maybe now Hashirama will stop hounding him to take back his gift, instead seeing Tobirama’s value in the smile of a best friend.

A stalwart bridge.

“You’re so perfect,” Madara groans in his ear when one particularly complex sequence brings them flush from chest to belly, drawing a bolt of longing at the proof of the hardness they share.

“Am I?” Tobirama jibes, one eyebrow arching up. “In what way? You’ll have to elaborate at length, I’m afraid.”

“Like your ego needs any help!”

Huffing with shared laughter, they move away for the course of twelve drum beats before they are able to synchronize their next leap and land in each other’s arms once more. Long strands of hair escape Madara’s plait to cling to Tobirama’s remaining wrist like ninja wire. Maybe if it pulls tight enough they’ll merge into one person under Konoha’s lantern light.

“Fine. You know I think you’re beautiful,” Madara croons as he nips his neck, uncaring of their audience. “Brilliant. Sage, I could get lost in the things you say.” He bends back in an impossible arch to spin under Tobirama’s upraised leg and slip smoothly behind him. “I’ve never seen such elegant fingers around my cock. And your body,” a heartfelt groan, “is a work of art.”

Tobirama sighs, leaning back and trusting Madara to take his weight as their hips roll in time with the rhythm of the night. It’s good to hear that the things Madara values in him are concrete, controllable. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he finishes, voice thick. 

And maybe not completely. Not yet. But the labyrinth of Madara’s mind is nowhere near as complex as Izuna’s; it’s only a matter of time before Tobirama analyzes him down to his base components and discovers the path to a dream meant for three. He thinks he’s already starting to see the shape of it.

For now, it’s obvious that his husband’s motivations lie no deeper than the layers of his fundoshi.

“Then perhaps you should take me home and _educate_ me,” Tobirama teases, voicing the challenge with just a hint of teeth. The dance was supposed to have ended an hour ago. There’s no imperative to continue and their presence won’t be missed.

How fortunate that Hashirama is making enough of a spectacle draped over Izuna’s shoulders and reeking of a village larder’s worth of sake to distract from any other sort of impropriety. With the exception of Izuna, the Uchiha excel at turning a blind eye to uncomfortable truths.

He slips away only for a heartbeat, immediately turning and coming back to slide a bare thigh between the panels of Madara’s yukata all the way up to the softness between his legs. Firm buttocks clench against his knee.

“Fuck,” Madara hisses.

“That was the insinuation,” Tobirama quips back.

Chakra spiking, Madara takes hold of his hips and grinds up the slope of his thigh, grunts at the unforgiving angle and how Tobirama wraps his arm around his waist to keep him there on his toes. The bonfire behind them flares higher.

Uchiha passions are always an explosive affair, Tobirama has found, and sex is as potent a fuel as any other—an easy pleasure to chase to completion.

Madara tries his best to carve out a home in Tobirama’s soul when they come together like this, thinking worshipping his body is the way to get there. It’s quaint. Endearing. Little does he know it’s impossible due to the simple fact that Tobirama has no soul to offer up, but that’s a secret for another lifetime.

Tomorrow will bring Hashirama’s knowing laughter when the scent of hearth and home still lingers in Tobirama’s skin. He’ll see the purple petals of love bites peeking over his otouto’s collar and be delighted at how well his precious people have come together.

More importantly, he’ll be _proud_.

Blinking away the fond imagining, Tobirama looks down to find eyes as red as his own staring back, lips full and parted on an exhale.

“How do you want it from me?” Madara asks, voice low enough to feel in his bones.

How? Ever since that fateful day kneeling in the forest with the throbbing pain where his arm once was there’s only ever been one answer.

“Uchiha Madara, I want you to take me apart. Destroy me, husband.” 

It’s not difficult to pull Madara in, to crash down against him as inexorably as the tide. They kiss with all of the passion an Uchiha can ignite, slow and languid at first, then growing in desperation until the world trembles with it. Madara is an avaricious man, taking all he can as Tobirama gives in equal measure.

They kiss until they’re breathless and Tobirama urges them even further past the burn. He strokes Madara’s front, from the smattering of hair on his chest all the way down to where the bow of his cock strains against his obi. 

When they finally part, he’s slick with sweat, breathing heavily enough to fuel a forge. They both are.

“That day with Izuna you said you wanted my love,” he pants into Madara’s mouth, “and now you have it.” He smiles so wide his cheeks ache at Madara’s incredulous joy.

“Koibito, I—”

Nothing has been so satisfying as diving back down to devour the enthusiastic reply straight from the source. 

If he can’t serve his anija directly, then he will perform this duty with aplomb. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* No curative powers of love here. This began in the Horror Anthology for a reason. ;D


End file.
